


my hate (which can never have enough of you)

by susiecarter



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Antagonism, Bad Decisions, Barebacking, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, M/M, Manipulation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:33:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: There's no way Tommy's going to be able to get his stuff back.It's briefly tempting to think about trying. Not just because he liked that stuff, dammit, but because it would be so satisfying. It would feel like—like getting one over on Bubonic, for once, to hunt it all down and find it again, keep it, when Bubonic had wanted to take it from him.





	my hate (which can never have enough of you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).

> :D This is very much on the "antagonistic mind games" side of "pining", but hopefully that makes it the right kind of Bubonic-style pigtail-pulling for your taste, Sandrine—happy PiningEx!
> 
> Title from the poem "[Hate Poem](https://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/127.html)" by Julie Sheehan. There is technically a case in the background of this story, but please don't look at it too hard or it will fall over. Consent is given and even insistent, but also objectively iffy for a variety of reasons, mostly because ... well, Bubonic.

There's no way Tommy's going to be able to get his stuff back.

It's briefly tempting to think about trying. Not just because he liked that stuff, dammit, but because it would be so satisfying. It would feel like—like getting one over on Bubonic, for once, to hunt it all down and find it again, keep it, when Bubonic had wanted to take it from him.

But it would be a huge pain in the ass, too. Tommy doesn't even know how many people saw the listing Bubonic made, and it's going to be basically impossible to identify them. There's no security cameras in Tommy's building; there are a couple across the street, but even if he could get access to the footage, he'd have to watch hours and hours of it, looking for anybody coming out the door with a familiar lamp, an end table, his fucking sofa. And then he'd still have to identify them all, work out where they lived—show up like a creep on their doorsteps, all, "Hi, I'm a cop, someone tricked you into stealing my fucking sofa. Can I have it back?"

Yeah. That would go great.

Besides, it feels weird. Clingy. It's just the tension, that's all. Never knowing what Bubonic's going to come up with, where he's going to strike from. But every time one of their little "anniversaries" is coming up, Tommy feels—wired with it. Jacked up, strung out. And when it's over, when Bubonic's done with him for another year—

He's glad. He is.

But there's always something about it that's a bit like a let-down, too, sliding off that knife-edge of uncertainty, no more reasons to stay wound up waiting for something to go wrong.

And he's got to learn to deal with that. He's got to start getting used to it.

So he decides to think about all this another way: Tommy chasing his shit down one piece at a time might just as easily be the thing Bubonic wants, the satisfaction Tommy can deny him. He'd love it, probably, if Tommy wasted a fuckload of time and police resources just trying to undo his stupid prank. It was just stuff, even if it was Tommy's stuff. He's got memories, photos. It's not a big deal.

Perfect excuse to start fresh, even. Try out a new style; get a mattress that doesn't squeak, a bureau with drawers that don't jam. Treat it as an opportunity, and move on. It's the practical, responsible, adult thing to do.

Except he doesn't exactly have a lot of time to wander around furniture stores window-shopping. Only natural to spend a few minutes in between work emails and case files googling for some options.

On a computer that's part of the office network, which Bubonic's already proven pretty thoroughly that he has access to.

In retrospect, that's probably Tommy's first mistake.

He starts off with the big stuff first. The important stuff, for one, and the stuff that's going to be the biggest pain to get up the stairs, too. Might as well bite the bullet and get it out of the way.

Most of his clothes are actually fine. The closet's built in, so nobody tried to take that, and apparently the earliest arrivals who'd done the most work to clean him out weren't his size. Some of it got dumped on the floor and kicked around, and a few things are missing, but by and large he can at least dress himself. So that's one essential taken care of.

It's everything else that's a problem.

Sofa, he decides. That's item number one. Dual-purpose: a nice big one will fill up the space, make the apartment seem a little less empty, and he can sleep on it while he's picking out a bed.

He finds one that looks pretty good to him. Friendly kind of shape, rounded corners; comfortable. Nice dark color so it won't show stains too obviously—he'll be first in line to admit he's pretty hard on furniture sometimes. With the hours he keeps, getting called in by Shaw in the middle of the night, he's sucked down a lot of instant coffee. And spilled a lot of it, too.

It isn't going to be the same. Of course it isn't. Tommy's old sofa was—he loved that thing, even if one arm _had_ been higher than the other; even if the cushions had sagged in the middle, right in the spot he always sat when he dropped down with a sigh, beer in hand, every time he had an afternoon off. This new one isn't going to have the same comfortable rubbed-thin spot where Tommy always put his elbow, the old familiar tear where Boris clawed it a little too hard jumping up.

But it's fine. It'll be fine. He'll get used to it. Might even like this one better, once it's broken in a little. Who wouldn't be happy to get themselves a brand-new sofa? He can afford it, and ordering new from someplace with reasonable pricing is a lot simpler and easier than actually making the time to search out something used that doesn't belong in a dumpster.

It's fine.

He should probably go try it out, see whether he actually likes it enough in person to keep it, but—jesus, he just wants all this over with. His life doesn't revolve around Bubonic and his bullshit, and this is the first step to proving it.

So he orders the damn sofa. Pays extra to have it delivered, and Yeager does him a solid and helps him actually move it in. He got the measurements pretty much right: there's one tense moment maneuvering it around the corner of the landing, but the rest of the way up the stairs is no trouble at all, and it fits through the apartment door just fine.

They get to slump down on it after, and Yeager stays for a beer even though there's literally nothing to do in Tommy's apartment besides sit on the lonely sofa and stare at the wall. He's considerate that way.

After he leaves, Tommy shifts around and lies down on it, and stares at the ceiling. It's comfortable. Longer than he is tall; definitely big enough to sleep on. It's nice.

It isn't until the next day that he gets the first text.

_not bad, detective calligan_

He blinks at it. His phone buzzed, he picked it up—swiped and unlocked, autopilot, to see what it was, and it's only now, belatedly, that he thinks to glance up to the top of the screen and see who the message came from.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

Fuck. He should have had another _year_ before he had to worry about this bullshit. What does Bubonic want now?

Before he can even decide what to say—_What the hell are you talking about?_ or _What, one anniversary's not enough for you?_—his phone buzzes again.

_a little bland_

_not much personality, as furniture goes_

Tommy stares down at the phone, and distantly registers the back of his neck going hot and then cold. The fucking sofa? Is that what this is about?

Except—jesus, he should have known, shouldn't he? As if Bubonic wouldn't have been able to access his search history, wouldn't have had a damn good guess as to what Tommy was doing running price comparisons on couches.

Shit.

He rubs a thumb against the bridge of his nose. He thinks he can feel a headache coming on.

_but never mind_, Tommy's phone tells him, after a moment.

_that's an easy fix_

Great. Tommy snorts, grimly amused. Because _that's_ not ominous at all. But what exactly is he going to do? Beg off and tell Shaw he's got to go home and check on his sofa? She'd only want to know why; she'd want him to report it, if Bubonic's in contact with him again, and make it all official. She's never understood that that's the wrong way to handle it—because Bubonic's not her problem. He's not Cyber Crimes's problem, he's not the city's problem. He's Tommy's problem, and he always has been.

Tommy waits another thirty seconds, a minute, but his phone doesn't buzz again.

Bubonic's probably just trying to mess with his head. Taunting him, one of his weird little unfunny jokes. It's not a big deal.

Tommy sets the phone down and gets back to work, and very carefully doesn't think about it again.

That lasts right up until he walks through his own door at the end of the day.

The new sofa is gone. That would be alarming enough on its own. But the thing that really stops Tommy short in his tracks, the thing that makes his heart pick up sharply in his chest, is what's sitting there in its place.

It's the _old_ sofa. _His_ old sofa.

He stares at it, and then takes a reluctant step toward it, helplessly cataloguing. The uneven arms, the stains; the sagging cushions; the light thin patch, the tear. It's all exactly right. He almost doesn't want to touch it. Half just because it feels like it might vanish if he does, pop like a soap bubble. And half because—

Well, because for all he fucking knows it might blow up.

Bubonic did this. It _must_ have been him. God, he must have—what, found it? _He_ probably had a list of IPs, everyone who'd accessed whatever post he made; and he'd be able to filter signal from noise, VPNs from static addresses. Had he bought Tommy's shit back from them? Stolen it? Or—

Tommy swallows hard, skin prickling. Or had he _kept_ it? Had he taken it in the first place, had it all along? It sends a cool jolt of apprehension down Tommy's spine just thinking about it: Bubonic walking right in here, easy as pie, making himself comfortable and looking through Tommy's things one at a time. Pretending to be just another person who'd seen the ad and come to check it out. Picking the sofa, laughing to himself about how pissed Tommy would be.

And—had he been planning on this all along? On giving it _back_ like this, as soon as Tommy tried to move on and put his place together again? Like Tommy was going to be grateful or something. Or maybe he was just pissed at being ignored, pissed that Tommy had decided to start fresh and get himself some shit Bubonic hadn't had his hands all over. Jesus.

Guess he's still got Bubonic's attention after all, for now.

He shakes his head at himself, and takes another step toward the sofa. Looks it over, wary, but—well. To be honest, explosives aren't really Bubonic's style. Not like that, anyway. He likes to let you pick out your own rope, hang yourself with it while he watches. Set you up to screw yourself over, not do it for you before you even know what's happening. In IRL, at that party—he hadn't technically done anything except give everyone in the building the chance to play a game. They'd done the rest themselves; all they'd had to do was choose not to, and the tank in the basement would never have come anywhere close to blowing up.

So whatever he did or didn't do with the sofa, it probably won't kill Tommy instantly.

Odds are it's bugged or something, but Tommy can sweep it for that shit later. Nobody here but him, with Boris off at the kennel for the week; Tommy hadn't wanted him hassling the delivery guys, and the sofa was only supposed to be the beginning. So—

So there's nothing to overhear, nothing to record, even if Bubonic stuffed the whole couch full of cameras. As long as Tommy remembers not to jerk off later, anyway.

Tommy makes a face at the thought, shakes his head. He worked late today and he's starving; and he can admit, if only to himself, that it's going to feel damn good to grab some takeout and eat dinner on his—_his_—couch.

Which it does.

Doesn't get weird on him at all, at least not until the lights are off. He's slept on this couch a million times, and it's just the right length for him, broken in so he can lie on his side and sink into it comfortably.

But suddenly, lying there in the dark, there's nothing left to think about except—

Except who else might have been lying on it.

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut. If Bubonic's really had it all along—had it, and planned the whole time to send it back to Tommy—god. There's something weird about just knowing he might have stood in Tommy's apartment and _looked_ at it, never mind taking it, touching it, hiding it away somewhere. Had _he_ slept on it? Just to be creepy, just to see what it was like. Just to get inside Tommy's head.

Like he needs to make the effort, Tommy acknowledges silently, when Tommy's moved him in there rent-free. He's got a case he's working, he needs to sleep; he can't keep doing this to himself all night.

He keeps his eyes closed, smooths out his face. Makes himself relax, one muscle at a time, and goes to sleep.

He does need the rest. The case actually is kind of a thorny one.

It's only been in the last year or so that they've started running into ransomware cases, but Cyber Crimes is already picking up more and more of them. First couple this year were private companies, and most of them had contacted Shaw and then decided to pay out in the end; there had been a limit to what the Cyber Crimes team could do about it.

But this go-round, it's the city administration itself that's been targeted. Just one municipal department, so far, but Shaw's expecting them to escalate—and she managed to pull enough strings in the PD to buy a little time for some legwork.

Because her working theory is that it's all the same group, and Tommy's starting to agree. Not that it _has_ to be anybody local. Obviously half the point of ransomware is you can do it to anybody, anywhere, as long as you can find an open port on a server. But the companies that have been hit weren't national, multi-national; they were based in New York, had their offices here. Not obvious picks, Tommy figures—unless maybe you're picking from ads you see on the subway, billboards you pass every day.

But there's no easy way to narrow down their pool, and the clock's ticking. Tommy's been going ten directions at once, trying to pin down something useful. Looking for anybody in the local scene who's maybe upgraded lately—maybe used those first couple of payouts for something noticeable.

And he probably shouldn't be surprised that in the end it takes him right back to IRL.

Sophia hadn't been thrilled about it, to put it lightly, but as far as Tommy can tell, that game night stunt Bubonic pulled has gotten around. He's not even sure which is driving more attention, people thinking it was the Flirtual Killer or the speculation that it fit Bubonic's profile. Tommy's happened across the debates online; there are entire subreddits devoted to arguing over exactly which instances of digital mayhem can be attributed to Bubonic, whether he's just that good or his stans are full of it, on and on and on.

And to certain kinds of people, IRL is now shimmering with Bubonic's reflected glory.

Sophia had stared at him, when he'd first explained it to her a couple days ago. "Yeah, that's—that's not really the kind of cool I ever wanted IRL to be," she'd said at last, flatly.

But, generous as always, she'd agreed to let him hang around for a few evenings in a row. He's got a list, faces he's looking for: suspects, sort of, or if they aren't suspects they probably know people who ought to be.

So he doesn't just have a full day of work to look forward to, but a full night scoping out a dark club, trying to pin down something—anything—that might crack this damn case open for him.

And he can't let Bubonic and a _sofa_ screw it up.

He has to remind himself about twenty times that nothing's going to happen.

Not tonight, anyway. Not unless he gets absurdly lucky. Tonight's just going to be about laying the groundwork, getting himself in position; establishing that some guy named Tommy who doesn't look anything like a cop happens to have some free time this week that he's going to be spending at IRL. He needs to get the lay of the land, that's all. Take a look around, see who's here and who isn't. Likeliest nights to actually turn up anybody on his list are going to be Friday, Saturday. Who goes clubbing full-bore on a Wednesday?

But he feels tension string his shoulders tight anyway, when he walks in. It's just—

Well. It's because of last time, probably. Bubonic was here, in this very building. He must have been. Tommy can still remember how it felt, to be stuck in the goddamn Cyber Crimes office, watching the dot that was Lindy; _knowing_ Bubonic was in there with her. She swore she hadn't seen him, that all she'd found was his damn phone. But he'd been there. And all Tommy could think, staring at that feed with Bubonic's low mocking voice ringing in his ears, was that it should have been him. He should have gone down there. Not Yeager, not Lindy. That would have been one hell of an anniversary, all right: just him and Bubonic, down there in the dark together—

"Oh, god—sorry, sorry!"

Tommy blinks and steadies himself, hands out automatically. Steadies the person who just backed into him, too: a guy, narrow, pale. Short hair, messy, bit of a curl to it. Tall, but not as tall as Tommy. Six even, Tommy judges reflexively, buck sixty—and then he stops composing an APB for the dude and looks more carefully. He's holding himself in a way that makes him look smaller than he is; hunching, harmless. He's probably actually more like six-two.

And—familiar.

"Sorry," the guy says again, breathless, twisted halfway around in Tommy's hands. Something about his face, the slope of his nose and the snub of the end of it, rings a bell. And then he takes an awkward half-step away and turns toward Tommy properly, and his eyes—pale, though Tommy can't be sure of the color in here—go wide. "Oh, god, you're that guy," he says in a rush, and puts his hands up, flinching.

Oh. Right.

"Hey, take it easy," Tommy says mildly, and when the guy gives him a wary uncertain look, he smiles and holds his own hands up, mirroring the guy's palm-out defensive gesture, and raises his eyebrows. "No gun this time. We're cool."

"Right," the guy says. "Sure. Okay."

He's looking Tommy up and down, anxious, like if Tommy's gun isn't in his hand then he wants to know where Tommy's hiding it; and then the flicker of his gaze settles a little bit, and it's—

Well, it's practically a onceover, to be frank, before the guy meets Tommy's eyes again and swallows convulsively.

Tommy tries to ignore the brief startling prickle of his skin. It doesn't entirely work.

He's here for a reason, to do a job. But it isn't like it wouldn't be good cover, meeting a stranger, having a drink. Makes him look a lot less like a cop, if he's sitting at the bar letting a guy who looks like this—nerdy, uncertain—put the moves on him.

"I, um. I really am sorry about that whole thing with your—with the apartment and your stuff, Mr—uh—"

Tommy lets the smile turn real. "Yeah, no. I pulled my gun on you, call me Tommy."

"Tommy," the guy repeats, and when Tommy holds out a hand, the guy stares at it for a second with his own hands still up—and then drops them at last, uncertain, before he reaches out in return and shakes. "Hi. I'm—I'm Charlie."

"Hi, Charlie," Tommy says, and then, wry, a deliberate echo, "Sorry about that whole thing with the gun in your face."

Charlie gives him another round-eyed look and then laughs, sudden and startling. And there's something kind of interesting about his face when he does it, his mouth: the smile that lingers after it's over is lopsided, slanting at an angle that almost looks sardonic. It's sharp, Tommy decides, just this side of mocking.

Doesn't quite fit the rest of him, the way he acts—ducking his head, right now, and dropping his eyes, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck.

But Tommy's always liked things that don't fit, always enjoyed picking them apart and figuring out why.

"So, you, uh. You get your stuff back?"

Tommy makes a face.

"Oh, man," Charlie says, grimacing. "So that ad really wasn't you, huh?"

"Nope," Tommy agrees flatly, and just barely manages not to grit his teeth. Keep it simple, he tells himself, and makes himself shrug, willing his shoulders to loosen. "It was supposed to be a prank. Got a little out of hand."

"You can say that again," Charlie murmurs, shaking his head. "Damn. I can't even imagine. What are you going to do? Or, I mean—you're not, like, sleeping on the floor in your empty apartment?"

"It's not quite that bad," Tommy allows. "Still got my sofa."

And it's not quite a misstep, but it's the next best thing, he realizes, watching a flicker of confusion cross Charlie's narrow face. "Um, I hate to break it to you, but you didn't by the time I got there."

"Yeah, no, it—" Tommy bites down on the inside of his cheek, swallowing a bark of laughter that would have come out way, way too bitter. "Good Samaritan brought it back," he manages, reasonably level, when he can.

Charlie's slanting mouth slants some more. "Aw," he says, so low Tommy almost misses it over the music pounding in the background. "Isn't that lovely." He pauses for a moment, and then raises his eyebrows. "And your friend?"

Tommy blinks at him, lets the cool split-second apprehension wash through him and drain away—because Yeager's not here and neither is Lindy, and there's no way Charlie can know that he knows Sophia. He knows how to do this, he's good at this. One of the easiest ways to screw yourself undercover when you're confronted with a question you don't understand is scramble to provide an explanation, and end up giving away something no one was even asking for. The worst confusion can do is make you look stupid for a second.

"Your friend," Charlie repeats, tilting his head. "The one who played this, um, prank on you?"

"Oh, yeah," Tommy says, and angles for a disarming smile. "Well, we're not on the best of terms right now—" and that's a hell of an understatement, if ever there were one. "—but he'll get what's coming to him."

Charlie eyes him, and his gaze is narrow and considering, amused. "When you put it that way," he says, "I could almost feel sorry for him."

"I wouldn't go out of your way," Tommy mutters.

It comes out sharp, a little mean, harsher than he wants it to—but Charlie doesn't seem dismayed or put off, doesn't go doe-eyed and nervous again. He laughs instead, a quick amused breath through his nose.

And then he flicks a glance at the bar, at Tommy, and reaches up to rub the back of his neck again. "Buy you a drink?"

He's struck just the right note, Tommy thinks. His tone is casual, friendly; there's a polite veneer of plausible deniability. If Tommy got pissed, demanded to know what the fuck he thought he was doing, he could still get away clean—raise those hands up palm-out, like Tommy was pulling a gun on him all over again, and swear he didn't mean anything by it.

And if Tommy took him up on it, placid friendliness—clapped him on the shoulder and said, _Sure thing, dude_, then they could talk for another five, ten minutes, nod at each other and shake hands again and agree to see each other around.

Plenty of safe ground here.

But Tommy's never been all that great at playing it safe, truth be told. And there's something about Charlie he can't quite put his finger on, a contradiction he can't pin down. The scales swing and swing and won't balance out: Charlie's wide pale eyes against his smug uneven smile; the easy harmless way he carries himself against the sweep of his gaze over Tommy's body; how uncertain he is, right up until he isn't.

So Tommy takes a half-step forward, closes most of the distance Charlie'd opened up between them after running into him. And Charlie stands there and lets him do it, chin coming up, eyes sharp.

"What kind of drink are we talking, here?"

God, it's been a long time since Tommy's done this—let himself think about it, even, never mind let a guy pick him up. Too long, maybe; because fuck, he can feel himself lighting up too hot and too fast, just standing this close to Charlie, just watching the way Charlie's stare goes dark.

"Whatever kind of drink you want it to be," Charlie says, soft but—but _goading_, a mocking undertone that isn't as much of a surprise as it should be.

Because Charlie's already given away that he's got a couple sharp edges, hidden under that messy hair and that rounded nose. And, Tommy realizes slowly, that isn't all. He doesn't think Tommy's actually going to go for it. He thinks Tommy's fucking with him, maybe, playing chicken; playing chicken and about to _lose_, which is actually kind of insulting.

That's the thing that makes his mind up, in the end.

It ought to be about the logic of it. It ought to be because he might as well, because he already decided it could serve as a helpful kind of cover if he has somebody to talk to, somebody to drink with—if he isn't just sitting in a corner glowering out at the crowd like a creep.

But the truth of it is that Tommy's never met a dare he wouldn't take. And he wants, suddenly, to make Charlie understand just how much he's underestimated Tommy; that Tommy's not just a loaded gun, not just a douchebag straight guy who'd make an example out of some dude in public for trying to buy him a drink. He wants to prove Charlie wrong.

It's a bad idea. Of course it is. As if he wouldn't have known it, even without everything that went down with Lindy and Ben tucked away in the back of his mind.

But it doesn't have to go that way, Tommy reasons. Not if he's careful. It doesn't have to get that serious. He's just—letting Charlie buy him a drink, that's all.

"Well, in that case, I've got some ideas," he says aloud, low.

Charlie stares at him. For just a second, his eyes catch the light; they're blue, Tommy sees. Blue, blue as ice, and that narrow uncertain face has gone hard and unreadable.

And then he looks away, ducks his head and smiles, and then tips his chin in the direction of the bar. "By all means, then," he says, and turns.

Tommy moves in step with him, ghosts one palm up to brush the small of Charlie's back—and he gets a weird petty jolt of satisfaction out of doing it, out of the way Charlie tenses under it for an instant in surprise.

It's actually a pretty nice night.

Uneventful, but not in a bad way. They're positioned pretty well, over at one end of the bar. Tommy can see most of the first floor, the tables, and the whole length of the stairs to the upper level.

And Charlie is startlingly easy to talk to, once they get going. Tommy was prepared for anything, for needing to dump out his drinks or hide them, spill them; but in the end he and Charlie don't end up anywhere in the ballpark of smashed, forgetting to drink at all half the time. Charlie seems to know everything about everything, full of bitingly incisive opinions on topics ranging from public transportation to philosophy. He's got all kinds of weird trivia up his sleeve, makes surprisingly mean little jokes—is just as vague as Tommy is about his job, his life, his family.

The music is an issue, except it's also a perfect excuse to lean in close, press his shoulder to Charlie's, turn in toward him like there's nobody else in the room. Tommy's still got a clear line of sight over his shoulder, too. Win-win.

He finally makes his excuses a little after midnight: early start, work tomorrow, you know how it is, in response to which Charlie nods solemnly and then admits he has no idea whatsoever, because he already told Tommy with a dismissive shrug that he did freelance, something dull he claimed wasn't worth the time it would take to explain the point of it. Tommy laughs, and goes—but not without getting Charlie's number first.

He sleeps well, that night, and doesn't think about Bubonic at all.

At least not until he leaves for the Cyber Crimes office in the morning, and is trapped in the lobby by a bunch of delivery guys headed upstairs with a bed.

A _familiar_ bed.

"Jesus Christ," Tommy mutters, and instead of ducking around them like he was going to, he stops and catches one of the guys by the shoulder. "Hey. Hey, where's this going?"

The delivery guy gives him a steady unamused look. "Listen, pal—"

"3A," Tommy interrupts, and the guy blinks at him. "I'm 3A, okay? It's mine. Right?"

"Yeah," the guy says slowly. "Yeah, that's right. 3A."

Fuck. Tommy grits his teeth. "Who did this?" he says, and he tries not to shout and only kind of succeeds. "Who told you to do this?"

"What—"

"A name, a phone number," Tommy snaps. "You must have something—"

"It was online!" the guy protests, and jesus, of course it was. Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, presses the ball of his thumb to the bridge of his nose, feeling tired and angry and kind of like an idiot. "The instructions said where to go get it, the frame and the mattress—and to bring it here. That's all, man. Paid in full. And yeah, there's a name," and Tommy knows with sudden grim amusement what he's about to say, the instant before it comes out of his mouth: "Here, I got it right here, it's, uh—Thomas Calligan."

"Yeah," Tommy says flatly. "I figured it might be." He dredges up a smile. Not enough to make up for accosting the guy, but to be honest he looks like he's ready to settle for it over getting yelled at by some whackjob who doesn't know who sent him his own damn bed.

But—it's not like he doesn't want it back, dammit. He wonders distantly whether Bubonic actually paid for it, or just hacked Tommy's bank account or something and took care of it that way. He supposes he'll find out.

Either way, he's got to get to work.

He lets the delivery guys carry on, squeezes past them and gets a move on, thinking dark thoughts the whole way. And of course it doesn't really get any better once he's actually in the office, either—he ends up spending hours just sitting there reviewing his files, all the photos he's painstakingly collected, double-checking whether any of the half-glimpsed faces moving through the dimness in IRL last night were important. He knows no one he'd identified among the likeliest suspects had showed, but a known associate or two would help prove he's on the right track with this shit.

And then his phone buzzes.

For a bright, clear half-second, flipping the phone over, he can't help but wonder whether it's going to be Charlie—

UNKNOWN NUMBER, his phone says, and he doesn't know what to call the way he feels in that moment, hand tightening around the case, chest tight with something that was anticipation a second ago.

_you're looking tired, detective calligan_

_so i took the liberty_

_i do hope you don't mind_

Tommy snorts, darkly amused despite himself. The sheer gall—as if there were any chance Tommy was about to believe that, as if Bubonic's ever given half a shit whether he's _bothering_ Tommy.

_sleep well, detective calligan_, Bubonic adds after a moment.

_you're welcome_

Jesus Christ.

Tommy turns the screen off with a too-sharp squeeze of his thumb, sucks in a breath and carefully doesn't throw the phone across the room. He really does not need this right now. As if it hadn't already been hard enough to focus on this, tedious pages of mug shots and blurry social media captures, without being distracted over _Bubonic_.

Because, god help him, he is. He'd been doing a great job not thinking about it: about Bubonic and _Tommy's bed_, that apparently he's had it this whole goddamn time; about what he might have done to it, or—or _in_ it—

Tommy swallows and sets the phone down with a clatter, hot-faced and frustrated, simmering with the restless half-formed urge to—to go find Bubonic _right now_, track him down and have it out, except of course he doesn't have the first clue where to even start. Years, now, that he's been working for Shaw in Cyber Crimes, and Bubonic's still the only one who gets under Tommy's skin like this: so far sometimes Tommy's not sure he'll ever be able to get him out again.

He pushes it down, tries to concentrate. It doesn't work. When Yeager passes by, sticks his head in to ask how it's going, Tommy snaps at him; and Yeager raises his eyebrows.

"That well, huh?"

Tommy sighs through his nose, tips his face forward and rubs at his eyes. "Yeah, pretty much."

He risks a glance, and Yeager's still watching him, with a soft sympathetic twist to the corner of his mouth. "Look, man," Yeager says after a moment, "it's almost one. Go get yourself some lunch or something. Stretch your legs. Get some air. Okay?"

"Yeah," Tommy allows, because—hell, that sounds good. And he is kind of hungry.

It does help. Just getting out of his chair helps, but he can feel his shoulders settle once he's out on the street, afternoon sun warm on his back, tension bleeding out of him. It's important work, Cyber Crimes, and it's interesting, Tommy likes it; but it's also a hell of a lot more time in front of a screen, peering at network diagrams or lists of account numbers, than Tommy used to deal with. There's a part of him that's always eager for it, when they get to the part where they've got actual legwork, a bust—something real, _physical_, something he can dig his teeth into and _do_.

There's a place a few blocks from the office that does coffee and sandwiches. Quick, convenient. Tommy's always liked to grab lunch there when he can. They've got pretty good service, but more importantly they're fast, nothing too fancy, which is all he's looking for when he's hungry.

But he's not expecting to see Charlie there.

It's not until after he's ordered, after he's paid and collected an iced coffee with one hand and is clutching a wrapped sandwich in the other. He turns away from the counter, gaze passing absently across the tables—he doesn't usually sit to eat here, just starts chowing down on the way back to the office, but he can't claim it doesn't appeal today.

And then his eyes catch on messy half-curling hair, a narrow pale face turned his way, and he blinks.

Charlie looks at him and then away, hunches a little in his seat and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, the one nervous tic he seems to have. And maybe he wishes Tommy hadn't noticed him, maybe he was hoping Tommy would just walk out again without seeing him at all—except when he looks up and meets Tommy's eyes, he's smiling just a little.

Turns out the shape of his mouth is just as interesting in good light; there really is something about it, Tommy thinks absently, that gives even Charlie's mildest expressions a sardonic kind of edge.

And then he realizes he's been walking over and staring at Charlie's mouth, and makes himself stop.

"Um, hey," Charlie says, and waves his hand, quick awkward swoop through the air, at the chair across from him. Tommy takes it for the tacit invitation he finds himself hoping it is, and pulls the chair out. "I saw you come in, but I didn't want to, like, just shout 'Hi' at you out of nowhere. That felt like it might be weird." He bites his lip. "Or maybe the weird thing was thinking about it too much. Thinking about it too much and then telling you about it out loud like I'm doing right now—"

Tommy grins at him, and shakes his head. It's got the pace of nervous babble, but there's a light in Charlie's pale eyes, that uneven little slant lingering around his mouth, and Tommy's pretty sure he's not actually embarrassed. Mocking himself, in the same level steady way he seems to mock everything else.

Tommy ought to be heading back to the office. This is a distraction, too. It's just that this feels like a good one—like instead of spinning his wheels over Bubonic, over this case, maybe he can just sit down and have coffee and a sandwich with Charlie.

"You're good," he says aloud, and sits down. "In my experience, thinking too much is a way less common problem than not thinking enough. It's nice," he adds, mock-contemplative. "Refreshing."

"Mm," Charlie agrees, gaze hooded, looking nothing so much as amused. And then he picks up his own coffee, tips it toward Tommy's, and adds, "Much though I hate to be a cliché—come here often?"

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile too wide. "Often enough, yeah," he says. "Not the best coffee I've ever had, but it keeps me awake. Plus," and he gestures to the sandwich he's halfway through unwrapping, "I like their sandwiches."

"Anything else find its way home?"

Tommy blinks at him, chest tightening around a mindless stab of apprehension—like the universe is conspiring against him, dragging even _this_ back around to that goddamn bed and Bubonic—

But that's stupid. Charlie doesn't know about the bed. He's just asking.

And, sure enough, the next thing Charlie says is, "You just—you said, last night, about your sofa. The Good Samaritan and all." His eyes flick back and forth over Tommy's face, and he adds slowly, "I take it you didn't get lucky again?"

Because, Tommy realizes belatedly, he's glaring like a thundercloud. He clears his throat, moderates his expression to something that's hopefully a little less homicidally frustrated, and ducks his head sheepishly. "Uh, right. Something like that. Sorry, I'm just kind of stressed about the whole thing right now."

"I'm sure," Charlie murmurs, and Tommy risks a glance and is surprised all over again—because Charlie hasn't backed off an inch, doesn't seem dismayed or offput at all. He looks like he thinks it's funny. He looks like he's about to laugh.

He's actually kind of a dick. And Tommy kind of loves it.

"Well," Charlie's saying mildly, "that's a shame," and then his tone drops lower, shades itself a little darker. "But I can't say I'd mind if you were looking to—work off a little frustration, later."

Tommy meets his eyes. "I'll take that under consideration," he says, and it comes out equally low, hoarser than he meant it to, fuck. He bites his lip, trying to get a grip; but Charlie doesn't look like he minds. He doesn't look like he minds one bit.

He's staring at _Tommy's_ mouth, at the spot where Tommy's teeth just dug into his lip and then dragged away again. And then his gaze flicks up again, and a wave of helpless heat sweeps up into Tommy's face—because the look in Charlie's eyes is dark, intent, steady and heavy and _smug_. Like maybe he knows exactly how impossible it's turning out to be for Tommy to look away.

Tommy's going back to IRL because of the case.

He is. It's surveillance, a weird backwards kind of stakeout. It's just—

It's just not the only reason.

It isn't like he and Charlie even—even made any arrangements. Not really. He'd just asked whether Charlie had anything planned tonight, and Charlie had shrugged one shoulder like it didn't matter and then looked at Tommy like he knew why it did. And he'd said he'd been thinking about going out, maybe, in a soft casual tone—but his eyes on Tommy had been anything but, and Tommy had known exactly where he'd be tonight.

It's not a thing.

It's not a thing, except it sort of is. The first time was random chance, the deli was coincidence. But this time—this time it's going to be on purpose. If Charlie's really there, it'll be at least a little bit because of Tommy.

And Tommy's telling himself he doesn't know how he feels about that, that it doesn't matter anyway because he's focused on the case. But the hot lurching feeling in his gut, the shiver trapped just under his skin, gives it the lie, and he can't make it stop.

He's not sure he even wants to.

Charlie _is_ there, when Tommy arrives. Already waiting, same end of the bar where they ended up standing together all night last time. And there's something about seeing him there—knowing him, now, well enough to understand how sharp he can be, how dismissive, when he's decided something's not worth his time, and understanding that he's waiting there for _Tommy_—

Tommy crosses the room toward him without hesitating. Charlie spots him when he's about halfway there, lowers his eyes and lets that slanting smile tug itself into place across his face; and by the time Tommy's made it the rest of the way, there's a drink already waiting for him.

"So," Charlie says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. "Worked off that frustration yet?"

And Tommy can't talk himself out of—of closing in behind Charlie, reaching around him for that drink: pressing a shoulder, a hip, to Charlie's; trapping Charlie close, for one stretched-out moment, against the bar. "Not even a little," Tommy says, practically into the shell of Charlie's ear, and then makes himself take a half-step back, easing off, even though it's the last thing he wants to do.

The last thing Charlie wants him to do, too, judging by the way Charlie looks at him after, hot dark eyes and parted mouth.

And that first night—that first night, Tommy had been able to tell himself this wasn't anything, and had even been halfway able to believe it. But if it isn't something yet, then it's turning into something on him pretty goddamn quick. And—

And Charlie's not Lindy, and he's not Ben; he doesn't want to end up that way if he can help it, doesn't want to fuck himself over with a mistake he could just as easily avoid making. He and Charlie aren't serious. But he's starting to think maybe they could be, sooner or later, and he doesn't want to screw this up before it's even started, doesn't want it with an expiration date built into its bones.

He knocks back a nice solid swallow of his drink—doesn't even taste whatever it is Charlie got him, not really. He just needs a second to steady himself.

And then he puts a hand on Charlie's arm, and leans in close. "Listen," he makes himself say. "Listen, there's something you should know. In case it's a dealbreaker for you. In case—I don't want to give you a reason to regret this."

Charlie's looking at him, and he's doing that thing, his eyes endlessly sharp, his face set and unreadable. "Is there," he says, and it doesn't sound like a real question.

"Yeah," Tommy says, answering it anyway. "I already pulled my piece on you, so for all I know you guessed, but—I'm a cop. NYPD."

Charlie's jaw goes tight. Shit, maybe he is angry—he laughs a second later, but it isn't the reassurance it should be, short and hard, no real amusement in it at all.

"How _upstanding_ of you, Tommy," he says, tone too sweet, almost unsettlingly so. "How conscientious." His gaze flicks over Tommy, up and down and back up again, and he sways in and adds, lower, mouth twisting, "And what an image. I've always had such a complex intellectual relationship with men in uniform."

"Charlie," Tommy says, and at the very least Charlie hasn't pushed him away, hasn't shaken Tommy's hand off his arm—Tommy skims it carefully to his elbow, curls his fingers and hangs on, conscious of a suddenly sharp impression that Charlie might slip from his grasp entirely if he doesn't.

Except Charlie doesn't move away. He just leans in closer, stare intent on Tommy's face, heavy, stifling. "That must be hard on you. Tough job, isn't it? That's what they say. Thankless. All kinds of difficult decisions you have to make every day, just like that. Life and death, over and over and over. Protecting and serving. Our heroes."

"Charlie—"

"Tell me," Charlie murmurs, insistent. "Tell me, Tommy. Is it all duty, to you? Just doing your job? Do you ever stop and think about it? Do you ever have questions? Surely there must be something that keeps you awake at night. There must be something you regret."

Tommy swallows. He wasn't expecting—but there's no reason not to keep telling the truth, now that he's started. It's looking more and more like Charlie's about to punch him and walk out, never think about him again; so what could it hurt? He never could make himself talk about it with Shaw, with Yeager—knowing they'd been there, that they would be again, day in and day out. But he's known Charlie for, jesus, a _day_. It doesn't matter, if Charlie knows this about him.

"Of course there is."

Charlie goes still under his hands.

"Charlie—of course there is. There's all kinds of things. I do the best I can on the job. I try to do the best I can. But there's always shit no one is ever expecting, shit that reminds you you've got no idea what the hell you're doing, that there are lives on the line and somebody decided you could be trusted to deal with it just because you've got a badge and a gun." He squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. "There are things that have happened on my watch that shouldn't have. Things that went wrong, that killed people, and I couldn't stop it. Of course it fucking keeps me awake—"

"_Good_," Charlie says, soft and vicious, breathing the word right into Tommy's ear. "Good. It fucking should."

And suddenly Charlie's moving—Charlie's hands are fisted in Tommy's shirt. Charlie's twisted them around; the edge of the bar is pressing into the small of Tommy's back, hard, an abrupt ache blooming.

"Charlie," Tommy says, catching Charlie's wrists in his hands. Jesus, Charlie is—Charlie is _pissed_, mouth twisted down, eyes hard. And Tommy could shove him off, pin him; hell, Tommy could probably break both his arms, if he tried. But he doesn't want to. There's got to be something he can do, some way to give Charlie breathing room, calm him down a little. Even if he's still angry with Tommy, that's fine, but—

He doesn't get the chance to try. Something flickers across Charlie's face, something bright and hot and dangerous, lightning striking without a sound. He presses his fists into Tommy's chest, knuckles digging in hard. And it's stupid, but the thing is, it's—he's _close_, right up in Tommy's face, thighs crowding Tommy's.

And then, impossibly, he's—they're kissing.

It's as furious as Charlie is, hard, angry; it takes Tommy a second to catch up, and by then Charlie's already biting him, teeth punishing in Tommy's lip. Tommy feels a sound catch on his tongue, and Charlie lifts a hand, spreads it, collars the base of Tommy's throat with those long pale fingers of his like he heard that sound, too—like he wants to cut off its escape route, make sure Tommy can't swallow it back down.

He presses in harder, works Tommy's mouth open—bites Tommy's tongue, sucks it into his mouth like he's decided that's his, too. Like he's got the right to, like it's only as much as he's owed. It's messy, painful.

It's so fucking good Tommy can't even handle it.

He works an arm around Charlie's back, drags him in tighter still; lets Charlie grab his face and tilt it down, pin it at the angle he wants it. Charlie makes a sharp noise into Tommy's mouth like that pisses him off, too, like Tommy's cooperation is an insult of its own. He leans his weight into the fist he's still got braced against Tommy's chest, holds Tommy there and pulls away—and they're stuck like that for a second, staring at each other in the dark, music pounding through them, breathing hard.

"If you count the coffee," Charlie says at last, "then this is our third date."

Tommy almost laughs. The words are right, a line he could've imagined Charlie delivering five minutes ago in a sly conversational way—but as it is Charlie's still drawn taut under Tommy's hands, sparking with anger like a live wire, and his tone is caustic enough to sting.

"Charlie," Tommy says. It feels like the only word left in his head.

"Your place," Charlie says.

Jesus, this is a terrible idea. Tommy still doesn't know what the hell is even wrong, why Charlie's so angry with him, what set him off or why he decided the right way to deal with it was to shove Tommy into the bar and stick his tongue down Tommy's throat. But the thing is—

The thing is, with Charlie looking at him like that, Tommy's not sure he cares.

Charlie moves his hand, slides it from the base of Tommy's throat to the nape of his neck—grips tight, fingertips curling in hard enough that it's probably going to bruise. "Your place," he says again, leaning in so the words feather hotly along the line of Tommy's jaw; and then, softer still, "Or I will never fucking forgive you."

This is absolutely the worst idea Tommy has ever had. But knowing that doesn't stop Tommy from gripping Charlie's arm, pressing himself mindlessly into the furious weight of Charlie against him, and listening to himself say, "_Yes_."

It feels like it takes forever.

They don't touch on the way. They can't, it's—if they did, Tommy can't swear he wouldn't just shove Charlie up against a wall in the subway station, bend him over a goddamn turnstile.

They stay at least a foot apart. Tommy jams his hands in his pockets so he can't lose track of them, can't find himself pulling Charlie to him again; but god, it barely even makes a difference. He can't look away from Charlie, feels as though every inch of himself is aware of every inch of Charlie—the air between them seems unbreathable to Tommy, filled with all the heat and weight and fierce electric danger of a summer storm about to break.

And Charlie is looking right back at him.

It's a goddamn relief to stumble through his own front door and turn around, to have Charlie up against him within a half-stride—and Charlie's already grabbing him by the shoulders, the nape of the neck, and dragging him down to kiss him.

It's hard and messy and furious, crackling with it; Charlie isn't sparing with his teeth, doesn't give Tommy an inch, like it's not enough that he helped himself to Tommy's apartment, Tommy's stuff, invited himself right into Tommy's head—like he won't be satisfied until he's stolen all the air right out of Tommy's chest, too.

And then, as suddenly as he started, he breaks away, holding Tommy off, pushing him back, the faintest shadow of a sneer twisting his mouth. He glances past Tommy, raises his eyebrows, and he's got that look: coldly amused, sharp enough to cut. "You weren't kidding," he says, soft and biting.

"It's not just the sofa," Tommy blurts. "I've got—the bed is—"

Charlie smiles, slow, and Tommy watches him do it and shivers. "Don't tell me," he murmurs. "Your good Samaritan gave you that back, too." He leans in, licks a hot line up the soft skin just under Tommy's ear. "What spectacular timing. Maybe he knew you were going to need it."

He. Bubonic, of course. Except Charlie doesn't know that—

The dim thought is driven out of Tommy's head by Charlie's hand on him: skipping straight past the belt, gripping his dick right through his jeans and squeezing, and fuck, fuck, he's pressing so tight it hurts, except Tommy was already aching anyway. He gasps and jerks, pushes into Charlie's hand.

"Not that I'd have minded bending you over that sofa," Charlie adds.

His tone is cool, contemplative. Like what he's doing isn't getting to him at all, doesn't mean anything—like Tommy's the only one here who's panting for it, desperate.

But that's not true, Tommy thinks, in a sharp vindictive rush of heat. It's like they're playing chicken all over again, like Charlie still thinks Tommy's about to lose. But Charlie's full of shit, and Tommy's never known when to back down from anything in his life.

"Yeah, well," Tommy says, breathless, and leans into Charlie, fumbles a hand up to grasp at the nape of his neck, to thumb at the line of his jaw. "Who said I was letting you in the bed, either?"

And it's two steps, quick and steady, to back Charlie up and pin him against the wall.

They fuck like that, the first time. Right there, like three feet from Tommy's front door. Tommy doesn't exactly mean to do it that way. It's just—it's just Charlie. God, he can't stop, he can't stop; it's stupid, everything about it is impossibly stupid. But there's something so _satisfying_, visceral and indefinable, about holding Charlie there, all his hidden jagged edges spilling out under Tommy's hands. Tommy's greedy for it, desperate—pushing, further and further, and every step of the way Charlie's already ahead of him. Always on the cusp of slipping out of Tommy's reach again, and Tommy can't stand that.

It's like Charlie knows it. It's like Charlie knows all of it. Tommy ends up flipping him, turning him against the wall, pressing up against his back, half just so Charlie will be facing away—won't be _looking_ at him with those gimlet eyes all the time, except it doesn't help at all. Worse than ever, really, to have the soft skin of Charlie's nape under his mouth; to have Charlie caged in against the wall, pushing back against him, gasping; and of course it's just that much easier to tug Charlie's hips sharply back against Tommy, to fumble for his fly.

And it doesn't make Charlie stop talking.

That's the real problem, maybe. Charlie, his voice. The—the things he says, the way he says them. His tone stays soft, almost bland; it's the words that are goading, taunting, teetering right on the edge of cruel. Pushing, the way Tommy's pushed Charlie with his hands. Pinning Tommy down, helpless and open and exposed, for all that Tommy's the one who's got Charlie's shirt shoved halfway up his back, who's got a hand forced down the half-loosened waist of Charlie's jeans.

Because he knows, somehow, about the thing in Tommy that wants it. The wordless grasping hunger, tucked deep in Tommy's chest, to be looked at—to be _seen_.

(He doesn't like to tell Shaw when Bubonic comes around. He never has. Because it isn't necessary, because there's nothing they can do about it anyway. Because it would be a waste of time and resources, trying to protect Tommy from a ghost.

—because Bubonic's _obsessed_ with him; and that's his. That's _his_, he—he doesn't want to share it. It should creep him out, the sheer unrelenting weight of Bubonic's attention. It should be too much. But it isn't, it never has been—)

And it's everything he wants and none of it, both at once. The way Charlie looks at him, satisfaction like a hit, having his attention; and the things he says, the sheer disdain, something that's almost humiliation burning hot in Tommy's cheeks.

Charlie mocks him for his taste, for his experience—which is to say the lack of it. How straight-edge he must be, whether he's got any idea what he's doing, the odds that everyone he's ever been with has had to fake it to get him to quit pawing at them.

So Tommy holds him there, sucks a couple fingers until they're practically dripping and shoves them in—two knuckles, then three, pressing Charlie open, _making_ him give in. And Charlie braces himself against the wall and swears, shudders against Tommy's grip, and then twists his red face around to glare at Tommy over his shoulder and spit, "Is that the best you can do?"

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, digs his teeth into his lip. Twists his fingers, pushes them deeper, just for the sake of the way Charlie's breath catches raggedly in his throat—just to feel Charlie tense and shake around them.

He shouldn't. God, he can't. Charlie doesn't exactly seem to be hurting over a couple fingers, or at least not in a bad way, but that's—that doesn't mean Tommy can just stick his _dick_ in without some kind of—fuck, he doesn't even have a condom, they were all in his goddamn bedside drawer—

"Come on," Charlie snaps. "Come _on_."

"Charlie," Tommy says, heart pounding, mouth dry. "Charlie, you—jesus, you shouldn't let me—"

Charlie laughs then, bright and ragged. "You're a cop, aren't you?" he says. "Come on, Tommy. You're clean, aren't you?" and then his voice softens, sweetens, a parody of tenderness. "Come on, Tommy, don't you want to?"

Tommy bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard. He—he does. He fucking _does_, god help him. Because if the burn of friction didn't do it for him like nothing else, they wouldn't have gotten this far in the first place; because he'd do anything, _anything_, to leave a single goddamn mark on Charlie, even if it's just by coming inside him bare, making a mess of him.

It's stupid. It's dangerous. It's fucking fantastic: just pushing himself inside, working his cock into Charlie one grudging inch at a time, the hitching grinding heat of it—watching the muscles work across Charlie's back where Tommy's pushed his shirt up, the hot flush sweeping his skin—god, god, it's so fucking good Tommy can barely stand it. He digs his fingers into Charlie's hair, makes a fist and tugs sideways: turns Charlie's cheek to him, that narrow sharp jaw, so he can mouth along it and muffle his own desperate fucking noises against it. Jesus.

Once he's worked himself in as deep as he can get at this angle, Charlie pinned against the wall, he fumbles down with his free hand. Charlie _is_ hard, fuck, Tommy fucking knew it; he grins against Charlie's cheek, hot and greedy and self-satisfied. And god, it's a whole different kind of good to work Charlie over with his hand, nice and slow—

"Fuck, come on," Charlie spits, "come _on_," and he reaches down and grips Tommy's wrist, digs his nails in, but Tommy doesn't falter.

He doesn't even know which is better: feeling Charlie come around his cock just like that, or coming himself after, knowing Charlie must be able to feel it too.

They do end up in the bed, eventually.

Tommy's not quite sure how it happens. He feels like they're balanced on the edge of a knife, conscious every second of how easy it would be for this to go sideways, crash and burn itself to ashes.

And maybe that's what saves it. The apprehension, the jangling fear that Charlie's going to shove him off and leave and Tommy's never going to—never going to understand, never going to fit the pieces of Charlie that he's been given together into a whole picture. Because he doesn't let go of Charlie when it's over, even after he's pulled out. He smooths his hand up Charlie's hip instead, up his waist, his side—relaxes the other where it was clenched in Charlie's hair, and tips Charlie's head just a little further. Just far enough to kiss him again.

Charlie likes to kiss him. Or at least—at least Tommy thinks he does. Maybe—

Charlie hisses out a breath against his mouth, twists around under his hands and puts his back to the wall. Digs his fingers into Tommy's shoulders and kisses back hard, and okay. All right. Maybe this isn't a complete disaster after all.

They don't have to let go of each other to get to the bed. Not like there's anything in the way, after all; nothing to trip over, nothing to knock down. There are some advantages to aggressive minimalism, Tommy decides dimly.

He finds the edge of the bed by walking into it—topples Charlie down across it and presses him into it. Sucks a bruise into the deceptively soft base of Charlie's throat, while Charlie bites out precise disdainful words about what exactly it is he thinks he's going to prove. He gets Charlie's shirt off at last, shrugs his own up over his head as an afterthought—but it turns out to be a great decision, because when Tommy ducks down to take Charlie's soft dick into his mouth, it means Charlie can dig his heels into Tommy's bare back, scratch sharp punishing lines into the skin of Tommy's shoulders.

It was just a hunch, really, that Charlie might be the kind of guy who liked to be pushed a little further than most. And if he hates the overstimulation, he's hiding it pretty well: he curses Tommy out, digs those fine long fingers into Tommy's hair and pulls, does everything short of actually pushing Tommy off him.

Half an hour of teasing, maybe less, and he's hard enough for Tommy to suck him off for real.

So it isn't until after that—until way after that, when Tommy's the one on his back on the bed, Charlie holding his wrists twisted together with one hand and the other two fingers deep in _Tommy's_ ass, that it spills out.

It's half Charlie's fault, really. The way he's staring, the way he always stares: those sharp eyes fixed tight on Tommy's own, even though Tommy's ass is probably a much more interesting show right this second. His face, that hard narrow face, and he—he looks like he wants something from Tommy, still, even now; even after everything.

And suddenly Tommy can't stop thinking of the way he'd looked back in IRL, strobing colored lights dipping and whirling, doing absolutely nothing to obscure the twist of his mouth when he'd sneered, _Tough job. Protect and serve. Our heroes_.

"Charlie," Tommy hears himself say.

"You can take it," Charlie assures him, unhesitating, and presses deeper, adds a third finger, and fuck, fuck, that's not what Tommy meant—

"Charlie, I'm sorry."

Charlie goes still over him.

"I don't know what happened," Tommy says. "When I told you I was a cop, and you were pissed. You're still pissed, probably. I know that whatever made you so—it must have been bad, whatever it was. It must have been fucking awful. And I wish—"

He bites his lip. It's not hard to mean it. It's easy; too easy. And he's saying it to Charlie, who's right in front of him, about something else entirely—but maybe he's also saying it to Bubonic, just a little.

"I wish I could fix it. I wish it had never happened. I'm sorry."

Charlie stares down at him. Tommy has no idea what the fuck he might be thinking.

And then he leans in close, tips their sweaty foreheads together. "Shut up," he says quietly. "Just—shut up."

"Charlie—"

Tommy ends up saying it half into Charlie's mouth. Charlie kisses him, slow and deep and hard, overwhelming; and by the time Charlie's fingers are moving inside him again, he doesn't remember what he'd meant to add.

(Charlie probably wouldn't have wanted to hear it anyway.)

Charlie's gone in the morning.

Tommy lies there and doesn't move, doesn't sit up or look around.

He'd spent a lot of time last night thinking to himself about marks, about leaving them on Charlie. But—

But he should have known better. How did he think this was going to work? As if he did anything to Charlie last night that Charlie can't wash off—probably already has, by now, wherever he is. As if he left a single trace on Charlie that won't fade.

Though Tommy can admit to himself that there's something vicious he likes a little too much about the idea that Charlie's going to keep seeing bruises for at least a few days. Seeing them, and thinking of Tommy.

It's not a surprise. If anything is, it's just how much it bothers Tommy to find himself in his bed alone with the morning sun spilling in.

There's no note. That's not really a surprise either.

Tommy's jerked out of his own head when his phone buzzes—on the floor, still stuffed halfway into the pocket of last night's jeans, because of course he hadn't bothered taking it out.

But the text's not Charlie. It isn't even Bubonic. It's Shaw, because Tommy is—jesus, almost half an hour late.

Fuck. He swears out loud a few times, scrambles out of the stupid bed and starts rooting around for some clean clothes.

Shaw's not exactly impressed with his report, given that he was only inside IRL for about fifteen minutes last night.

Tommy grimaces, and does his best to bear up under her stare. "Look, I _know_ I'm close on this one." He stabs a finger down at the sheets of photographs. "That first night—there were half a dozen different associates—"

"Associates," Shaw repeats.

"It's not the direct connection I was hoping for," Tommy acknowledges, "but it was _one_ night. Last night there was—a disturbance," because that's almost true, given that Charlie had looked about an inch from hitting Tommy in the face. "It didn't go the way I was planning." Even truer. "I just need a little more time."

Shaw gives him a long skeptical look. But he does some of his best work under pressure and she knows it, and after a minute she relents. "One more day," she says. "Thirty-six hours is the most I can give you."

"Thirty-six hours," Tommy agrees. "Got it."

Once he's back out of her office, though, he finds himself hesitating. If anybody was actually paying attention last night—if anybody saw him with Charlie—god, he doesn't even know, he wasn't looking. He—

He couldn't see anything but Charlie.

Will it make him look out of place, if he shows up alone after a display like that?

He bites his lip, and lets his eyes fall shut. Or is he just an idiot who's looking for any excuse to text Charlie?

Probably both, he decides ruefully.

He spends half an hour on it, and finally manages to compose something that doesn't sound too upset or accusatory, too clingy or weird. He can't, after all, not if he wants Charlie to even think about showing up. Just casual, that's all—and it should be because Tommy's constructing a version of himself that's not that invested, intrigued but untroubled by the way Charlie was acting. But instead—

Instead, he finds himself thinking it's going to pique Charlie's curiosity. Prod that startling icy temper of his, even: because in a way Tommy had exposed almost as much of himself as Charlie, met that inexplicable raw display of anger with his own fear and guilt and insecurity. Charlie had goaded him, and Tommy had let himself be goaded. And if Tommy texts him now like it was no big deal—Tommy thinks of those cool pale eyes on him, the way they have sometimes of feeling like they're going right through him. He's going to know Tommy's full of shit. He's going to know it, and he's going to want to poke at Tommy for it, prod and pinch until he gets the reaction Tommy should have had instead.

_See you at IRL tonight?_ hardly seems worth all that thought and effort, but Tommy's only making it worse sitting here staring down at it. He sends it and resolves to stop thinking about it. Maybe Charlie will answer or maybe he won't. Tommy'll manage either way.

He doesn't get a response. He doesn't get a single text all day, in point of fact, aside from Shaw's in the morning—not from Charlie, not from Bubonic. He finds himself wondering wryly whether that's all the furniture he's ever going to get back. Maybe Bubonic's tired of him again already.

But when he gets to IRL that night, Charlie's there after all.

At the bar all over again. His eyes find Tommy immediately, and Tommy swallows and makes himself start walking. He doesn't know what he's going to say when he gets there, doesn't know what _Charlie's_ going to say. He doesn't know what to think about any of this—

And then, the worst possible timing Tommy could ever have asked for, he lets his eyes flicker over away from Charlie, and they land on three faces around a table toward the back. Three faces that Tommy's been staring at for weeks now, part of one of the local rings of hackers Tommy'd identified as one of the likeliest groups to be involved in this case—or to know who is.

Shit.

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek, and changes course. The case has to come first. _Has_ to—and it's not like Charlie can get any angrier with Tommy than he presumably already is.

There's no time to waste, either, because the three of them are already standing even as Tommy angles toward them. Heading for one of the back exits along the rear wall, Tommy sees, which is fucking perfect; he tries to keep it casual, make sure he's not moving in a straight line or pushing past anybody too fast, but if they get too far out that door before he can make it over there, he's going to lose them.

The door opens up onto a back alley. Just around the corner, Tommy realizes with brief grim amusement, from where Bubonic set him up to get his face beaten in. Oh, the memories.

The guys—Eckhart, Tommy reminds himself, Eckhart and Sloane and Morris—aren't immediately apparent. They could have rounded the corner, or headed the other way around toward the front of the building. Tommy's caught there for a second, hesitating, hoping a flash of gut instinct will tell him which way to go. And then he hears footsteps.

Except they're not in front of him. They're behind him.

Shit, he thinks, and turns back toward the door, and sure enough, it's Charlie.

"Tommy—"

"I'm sorry," Tommy says immediately, hushed, "I can't explain this right now, but you need to get out of here. Charlie, please," and he's hurrying toward Charlie, grabbing his arm—not looking at anything else, predictably enough, which is probably why they get the drop on him.

He comes around slowly, fuzzy-headed and aching and kind of wishing he'd just stayed unconscious.

"That's right, come on," somebody says, and smacks him in the face again, and right. Right, that's why he's waking up. Wasn't his idea at all. No wonder. "Come on, pig, wake the fuck up."

And they've guessed he's a cop. Great.

He cracks an eye, makes a quick assessment. They've got him pinned to a wall, that's all. Not even tied up. And—

And Charlie's there, too. Arms behind him, somebody's forearm across his chest. Doesn't look like anybody's hitting him, though.

That's good. That's great, Tommy thinks dazedly. Just got to keep it that way, that's all.

"Fuck you," he slurs out, and that nets him a harder slap, cracking his throbbing head sideways against the wall.

"Look, you've got to give him a second," somebody else says, somebody who's not slapping him. "He probably doesn't even know his own goddamn name right now."

"Fine, fine," the first voice agrees, and—jesus, they don't even tie him up or anything, don't handcuff him to a pipe or ziptie him at all. They just leave him there, propped against the wall.

But then they're probably new to actual assault and battery, Tommy supposes dimly. Can't do that online, after all.

"Well, you're just making friends right and left today, aren't you, Tommy?"

He pries both his eyes open this time, and looks up.

It's Charlie, of course. They let him go, too, before they filed out of the room, and he stood there with his back to the wall, hands up, and let them—harmless hunching Charlie, just like when Tommy pointed a gun at him the first time.

"Charlie," Tommy hears himself say, and it comes out a little scraped but pretty intelligible, he thinks, considering how much his head hurts.

He wobbles away from the wall, reaches out—and Charlie's got an arm up, catching his wrist. Tommy doesn't know what Charlie's expecting, but it doesn't seem to be for Tommy to reach for his head, his hair, skimming unsteady fingers over his scalp.

"What are you doing?" Charlie asks, low and level and biting.

"They hit you, too," Tommy says blurrily. "Right? To get you here. They hit you—" and then Charlie jerks a little against his hand, because yeah, there it is, just like Tommy thought it would be: goose egg, a little stiff matted spot in that messy hair where Charlie bled from the blow. Ouch.

"They _kept_ hitting you," Charlie observes sharply.

Tommy blinks at him. Charlie touches his mouth and he flinches, surprised, and only registers afterward that okay, yeah, that hurt. Split lip. Hadn't felt like they were slapping him that hard, but then again he wasn't awake for all of it. Part of him is dimly aware that he's still out of it, not thinking straight—but that part's too small, too quiet, to do anything about it, not with the rest of his head rolling and pounding and throbbing like this.

"Phone," he hears himself say.

"Unfortunately for us, they aren't quite that stupid," Charlie says. "Fortunately for us, however, they only found one of mine."

One of his?

"Who has two phones?"

"I do," Charlie says, crisp and a little dismissive, except when Tommy stumbles another half-step toward him, he catches Tommy by the shoulder, steadies him. "Just give me a moment, if you would."

"Call the police," Tommy suggests, watching Charlie's free hand dive in somewhere under his jacket and come out with, indeed, a phone.

Charlie snorts. "As if," he says, and he's still got a hand on Tommy, bracing him, but it doesn't seem to matter. His thumb moves faster over the screen than anybody Tommy's ever seen, and—and the screen doesn't even look right, Tommy realizes slowly. It looks like a computer, like a command line interface; like he cracked it, rooted it. But what is he even doing?

"And, luckier still," Charlie murmurs, "this building's alarm system is digital. Isn't that lovely."

"Charlie—"

"All right, here we go," Charlie says, brisk and businesslike.

And then at least half a dozen things happen at once. The most important ones, as far as Tommy can tell, are these: a sudden deafening blare goes off, lights flickering under the door to the room they're shut up in; there's a rush of sound, white noise and a spatter, and suddenly water's leaking in across the floor; and, most critically of all, the door clicks.

"Jesus," Tommy says blankly.

Charlie glances at him, and briefly takes pity on him. "Automatic," he says. "Very efficient emergency system. Fire alarm goes off, doors unlock."

Tommy stares at him. God. He's—he should be impressed; but he stares and stares and stares, and somewhere, distantly, a hunch is starting to creep up on him, inching closer like the water from the sprinklers that's creeping in under the door. He can't shake the feeling that he—he almost knows who he's looking at. He almost understands—

"Come on," Charlie says impatiently, grabbing him by the elbow.

"No, wait," Tommy says. Jesus, his head hurts.

"Come _on_," Charlie insists, and that's about the point at which Tommy's pretty sure he passes out again.

He's fine, in the end.

According to Shaw, he was found several blocks from the building, leaned up carefully against a wall, as if asleep. Someone texted Shaw his location from an unknown number.

He had a concussion, a contusion; the lip needed stitches. He gets sent home to rest for a day, but he's back on light duty the next.

He's better than fine, even. Eckhart, Sloane, and Morris, plus half a dozen other associates, were only just stumbling their way out of the building, soaking wet, when emergency services arrived, brought by the alarm. They're being held right now, and probably already spilling the beans. Whatever it is they know, Shaw's going to know it too, soon.

But Shaw's definition of light duty doesn't include questioning suspects. So Tommy's stuck in the office instead, staring at a lot of paperwork he probably ought to catch up on, and trying to pretend all his attention isn't on his phone.

It had been retrieved intact from Eckhart's pocket. That's part of the reason they're being held—charged with assaulting a police officer.

Shaw gave it back to him, and he thanked her and took it. And it's been sitting on the edge of his desk ever since, clean and shiny and fully functional, not buzzing at all.

He picks it up, and bites his lip. God. What is he doing? He shakes his head, rubs his free hand over his face and sighs out a harsh breath.

And then, before he can actually set it down again, it buzzes.

He tips it up, heart in his throat.

_you're welcome_

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

Tommy swallows, squeezes his eyes shut and presses the edge of the phone into his forehead.

Like he's ever been any good at playing it safe, he thinks distantly.

The screen goes dim. He thumbs it awake again, and texts back.

_See you at IRL tonight?_

He waits. There's no answer.

But he didn't have any reason to think there would be. He—he just wanted to say it, maybe, to whoever it is who's there.

He doesn't manage to talk himself out of it.

He said he'd go. Or at least he'd implied it. But even if he hadn't, it wouldn't matter. He wouldn't be able to stand it, not going and never knowing what he might or might not have missed.

He has to do it. Even if he ends up standing in IRL alone all night long—that'll be some kind of answer, even if it's not the one he wants.

Not, he thinks ruefully, that he has any idea what the fuck he _does_ want.

But: he goes.

He almost heads straight inside. But he finds his steps slowing, a sudden hunch tightening his shoulders and tingling up the back of his neck.

There's no reason not to at least look. It'll only take a minute—and if there's nothing there, he can go in anyway.

So he turns and walks down the block instead, rounds the corner and steps into the alley. Another corner would take him to the rear door, the spot where he and Charlie got themselves jumped. But here, right here, this is where he got his face pounded in. He got his face pounded in, and then a figure wearing a plague doctor's mask had stood over him, leaning down, mock-solicitous.

Tommy had never been able to decide, after, whether that had been real. Whether he'd had Bubonic within arm's reach and lost him again, or he'd just—he'd just had Bubonic on the brain, muddled half-formed images blooming from the fertile ground of a pretty solid concussion.

But tonight, someone's there.

Tommy swallows, and lets out a long slow breath, and keeps walking.

It's Charlie, mostly, who's waiting for him. Or at least he thinks it is. The lowered head, the casual curve of the shoulders.

But then he gets closer, footsteps audible. The head comes up—the shoulders string themselves tight. And those eyes, those pale sharp eyes, cool as ice, find Tommy.

"Charlie," Tommy says, level. "Or is there something else I should call you?"

Bubonic doesn't flinch. "If you'd like Charlie," he murmurs steadily, "you can have him," and just that quickly, his gaze drops; he takes on a shadow of a hunch, just enough to make him look a good inch shorter. His hand comes up—to rub at the nape of his neck. Of course. Tommy's never seen Bubonic nervous, not in one single video over the years. But Charlie was supposed to be different.

Tommy wonders distantly what other options Bubonic had considered, before he'd settled on the awkward neck-rub. A knuckle at the eyebrow, now and then? Rubbing the bridge of the nose, maybe, or twiddling his thumbs.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did," Bubonic is adding, soft and even. "He was pleasant enough. Normal. Nothing to fear, not really. Comfortable."

Tommy looks at him. And then, helpless, without quite meaning to, he laughs.

"Yeah," he says mildly, as if to agree. "Yeah, right. Pleasant. Comfortable. Real stand-up guy, Charlie." He takes a half-step closer: not touching Bubonic, not yet. Just crowding him a little, closing him in against the alley wall. "Except for the part where he wasn't. Let's face it, man, Charlie was kind of a dick. He thought it was funny," Tommy adds, "what you did to me," and he's rewarded with the quicksilver flicker of Bubonic's mouth, that same goddamn lopsided smile, cool and smug. "He was mean, when you got him going. He was mean and he was impatient, he made me feel stupid and he didn't care. He was—" Tommy stops, and swallows. "He was angry."

And now the smile is gone, Bubonic's face wiped clean, unreadable.

"The thing is, though," Tommy says, "that was what I liked about him. I wasn't looking for pleasant, I wasn't looking for comfortable. Or I was, but not like—" He stops himself again, bites the inside of his cheek and tries to remember how Bubonic had put it. "I don't want a—a little bland. Not much personality."

Bubonic is staring at him, unmoving. Tommy can't even begin to guess what he's thinking.

"I like one arm a little higher than the other. I like stains, rips, tears. Spots that are worn thin. Broken down. Or just broken, maybe, at least to some people. People who aren't me."

Bubonic watches him a moment longer, and then does move—not to push him aside, though, not to sidle past and disappear again. He leans back, that's all; tips his head against the wall, chin coming up, eyes as sharp on Tommy's face as ever. "I wonder," he says, soft. "Do you have any idea what you're really telling me, Detective Calligan?"

And god, Tommy would have known it was him in a second, less, if Charlie had ever said Tommy's name like that. He bites his lip and reaches out—cautious, wary, like he's expecting Bubonic to snap his teeth; but his hand settles at the base of Bubonic's throat and Bubonic lets it, staring at him, stark and cool and level.

"I told you," Tommy says, "call me Tommy," and then he takes the dare: leans in the rest of the way, and presses their mouths together.

It's everything and nothing like kissing Charlie. Because of course Bubonic's mouth is the same; the way he holds himself, since by the time they were kissing, Charlie'd lost all that half-hearted shyness anyway—the way he feels under Tommy's hands. Except that Tommy knows who he's kissing now, and that makes all the difference in the world.

"I despise everything you stand for," Bubonic says into his mouth, almost gentle.

"Yeah," Tommy agrees.

Bubonic stares at him, and then at his lips; rubs a thumb along the curve of the lower one, twisting it, dragging it. "I told you the truth," he adds. "I will never fucking forgive you."

Tommy closes his eyes. "I wouldn't ask you to," he hears himself say.

"I thought it would help, you know," Bubonic says, and his tone has changed again: mild, now. Contemplative. "I thought I'd enjoy it. You're always so easily fooled, Detective Calligan. I thought it would be fun."

Of course he had, Tommy thinks. That first night, the way he'd looked when he'd offered to buy Tommy a drink—thinking he'd called Tommy's bluff. Thinking—

Thinking he'd have something new to hate Tommy for.

"And then I thought I might as well," Bubonic is saying. "Fuck you, I mean," and that part is pointedly light, a casual twist of the knife, but Tommy doesn't flinch from it. "Get it out of my system."

"Sure," Tommy says, low, and kisses him again, harder, pressing him back into the brickwork. "And how'd that work out for you?"

"Approximately as well as it appears to have worked out for you," Bubonic murmurs.

Tommy bites his lip, and lets his eyes fall shut. Fuck. He's not wrong. Tommy shouldn't be doing this, this is—this is never going to work. He can't be here, he ought to be _arresting_ Bubonic; except of course he has jack shit on the man who's standing in front of him. A dozen circumstantial bits and pieces that add up inexorably to Bubonic, but only as long as you're Tommy.

Bubonic moves, in front of him. He keeps his eyes closed, but he can hear it—can feel it, Bubonic's knuckles against his chin, tilting it.

"I suppose I'll—see you around, then, Detective Calligan," Bubonic adds, more quietly still, and Tommy stays where he is. Stays where he is and lets Bubonic kiss him again.

When it's over, when he opens his eyes, Bubonic's going to be gone. He knows that. But it won't be the end—not for them.

After all, Tommy thinks, they've got a lot of anniversaries left to go.


End file.
